


Two Men and a Camel

by kelios



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Realities, Ancient Egypt, Angst, Crack, Gen, Inaccurate Medical Information, J2, M/M, SPN Reversebang 2020, TFM J2, The French Mistake J2, inaccurate historical information
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/pseuds/kelios
Summary: Ever since a dimensional rift opened in the middle of their set and sent Jared and Jensen careening into another universe, the cast and crew have brought them items they think might be cursed. They've been lucky so far, but no one can be lucky forever.Sam and Dean are minding their own business in the middle of the night, when suddenly...there's sand. Lots and lots of sand.And Castiel? Well, all of God's creatures might be bright and beautiful, but he personally never wants to see a camel again for as long as he lives.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Comments: 11
Kudos: 70





	Two Men and a Camel

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so a lot of this is fairly inaccurate wrt anything medical. Don't try to vaccinate yourself against measles, okay? It's not gonna work. Just go to the doctor and have them do it. 
> 
> I did try for a little more accuracy regarding ancient Egypt--for the time, their medical practices were fairly advanced with regards to injury, but they were still pretty sure sickness was caused by evil spirits and demons. (Don't look up tooth worms. I'm just warning you now. Don't do it.)
> 
> This all came about because my artist listed J2 as a pairing, but only used characters in her prompt description and my brain immediately said OOOH CRACK.
> 
> Thanks again to @firesign10 for offering encouragement and promising that yes, this does make sense. I'm starting to think I couldn't do this without you ♥
> 
> This fic is dedicated to the person who told me, years ago when I first joined fandom, that the only crack fics in our fandom were Wincest, because everyone hated it and made fun of it.

“Whatcha got there?” Jared asks, coming up behind Jensen. He rests his chin on Jensen’s shoulder, arms sliding around his waist. “Looks...cool?”

“Gary brought it by my trailer as we were wrapping,” Jensen says distractedly. He’s holding a small book, bound in some kind of leather, with an ornately jeweled cover. “Said he found it at an estate sale when they were looking for spooky shit for the batcave, thought we might want to see it.”

Jared sighs, straightens up. Ever since the… _incident_...three years ago, the crew had started bringing the two of them items they suspected of being problems. “What is it, exactly?”

Jensen offers it to him--it’s heavier than it looks and the odd feel of the leather it’s bound in makes Jared’s skin crawl. The front cover is covered almost entirely with delicate gold filigree that’s set with a clear crystal scarab in the center, as though it had been an amulet or necklace in a previous life. Jared takes the book gingerly, turning it over and around and watching the light glint off the crystal scarab.

“Interesting,” he comments, opening it carefully. “What did he think was wrong with it? Other than the fact that it feels _weird_?”

Jensen peers at the open page, blank except for a handwritten title. “ _The Doors of Time Unlocked_ ,” he reads, stumbling slightly over the spidery script. “ _Or, A Treatise On The Most Ancient And Exalted Land Of Egypt, And How One Might Travel To These Esteemed Lands_.”

“A travel guide to Egypt? That doesn’t sound particularly threatening, though judging by this cover it’s a little outdated,” Jared quips. “ _Written by Ethan Westmire, Egyptologist; Interdimensional Explorer; Inventor Of Many Wondrous And Extraordinary Devices; Magician Of The Highest Order, In The Year Of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred And Twenty Four._ This guy thinks pretty highly of himself.”

“No kidding,” Jensen says, setting the book on the counter and turning the page. “Is it just me, or does this ink look...weird.”

“Kind of reddish brown,” Jared agrees, touching the page carefully. One side is blank except for an empty frame that looks like it should contain a picture; the other with the same spidery, jagged script as the title page but arranged almost in verse form. And something about the rust colored ink makes Jared uneasy.

“I’m not sure why Gary wanted us to see this,” Jensen says thoughtfully. “But we’ve got a name and a tentative date to start with, so let’s do a little research.”

“You mean why don’t _I_ do a little research,” Jared huffs, rolling his eyes a little. “And while I’m digging through the internet, _you_ can start dinner. I have a feeling this could take awhile.”

While Jared boots up his laptop, Jensen starts putting together a quick meal--burgers with a basic salad and a couple of bottles of their favorite Canadian beer. Jared sighs as he takes a quick sip. “Man, I miss Shiner.”

“Soon,” Jensen promises. “This break is only a week, but summer hiatus is only a month away.” He tilts his bottle toward Jared and gets a tap in return.

“So get this,” Jared says, deadpan, shooting a quick glance at Jensen to catch his eye crinkles as he shakes his head and smiles. “Turns out there’s quite a bit of info about this Westmire guy. He was a famous amateur Egyptologist back around the turn of the century--which is code for a looter and smuggler, basically. And he had quite a reputation for being eccentric. He called himself an inventor and a magician, boasted he could travel between dimensions--in fact, he said he’d found a book that allowed him to travel to the past in one of these alternate dimensions. He still managed to get himself assigned to several prestigious archaeological digs in Egypt, including, if you can believe it, a dig with Howard Carter.”

“Seriously? The guy who found Tut?” Jensen takes another drink, raises an eyebrow. “They really let just anyone work, I guess.”

“Turned out to be a bad decision, though,” Jared continues thoughtfully. “He was let go after Carter accused him of stealing various artifacts and selling them on the black market to fund his experiments. I wonder if our friendly neighborhood beetle thing was one of them?"

“So what happened to him?” Jensen asks, fascinated. “Career ruined? Blacklisted?”

“By everyone,” Jared nods. “He started talking even more about different dimensions and magic, and he carried a book--this book, I think--everywhere he went. Said he’d stolen it from himself in an alternate dimension. Then, about a year later he went completely insane and had to be institutionalized. He refused to speak English at first, and when he finally did it was all nonsense. There was some speculation that he went mad with grief after the death of his best friend and suspected lover Henry Mason.”

“Suspected lover, huh? That was pretty taboo back then, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jared says quietly. “Even more than today. They could have lost everything, even been jailed or killed. All things considered, I guess we’re pretty lucky after all.”

Jensen takes his hand, kisses his palm. “I’ve never thought anything else,” he says just as quietly, sincerely.

Jared smiles at him fondly. “Me either. Now lets see if we can figure some of this out and put Gary’s mind at ease.”

“Oh, is that your main concern?” Jensen teases. “Or do you just want to get me into bed?”

Jared spreads his hands innocently, dimples peeking out. “Can’t it be both?”

Jensen just shakes his head. "Alright, Romeo. Let's see if we can figure out what this first page says at least. Then you can have your wicked way with me."

Jared laughs softly and turns back to the book. “Jesus, this guy’s handwriting is awful,” he says, eyes skimming the page. “It starts off with an introduction.”

_“This is the journal of Ethan Westmire, inventor, magician, traveler between worlds and dimensions, sailor on the seas of time. I leave this record for my dearest friend and companion, Henry Morgan, and for those who might follow in our footsteps, having stolen the original manuscript from my doppelganger in another universe and brought it back here, that we may explore it’s mysteries at our leisure.”_

Jared pauses, puzzling out the archaic lettering. “It goes on for a while about how he has to be careful, everyone’s out to get him, no one believes him--paranoid craziness, sounds like. No wonder he ended up committed.” He carefully turns the page and continues.

_This book’s pages contain mysteries and powers beyond the imagining of mere mortals. With it, one can sail the seas of time and look through the eyes of a thousand souls. But these secrets are well-guarded and not for the faint of heart. To see what once was, the intrepid traveler must be willing to sacrifice that which is closest to his heart._

“Well, that’s nice and ominous,” Jensen says, shuddering. “But is there any indication that this guy is for real? Anything at all?”

“I don’t know,” Jared says distractedly. “But look at this. There’s more insane rambling about the cost of power and the value of trust--and then the binding and the pages change completely. Look at the difference in the paper and the ink here. It’s like someone cut out the original beginning pages and added their own.”

 _“There must always be two,”_ Jensen reads, glancing up at Jared thoughtfully as they both note the difference in handwriting. _“One who travels and one who waits. Without that faithful voice to call the weary traveler home, he will be lost in the eddies of time forever.”_

“Whoever these guys are, they have a real flair for the dramatic,” Jared says, his voice a little rough, and Jensen knows what he’s thinking, because he’s thinking the same thing. He slaps his hands down on the counter, startling Jensen a little bit. “I don’t know about you, but I think I need something a little stronger than beer,” he says, standing up. At Jensen’s nod he grabs two glasses along with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and brings them back to the kitchen, pours two fingers into each and takes a long drink.

“Alright,” he says, breathing deep. “This is supposed to be an instruction manual of some sort. Let’s see if we can figure out what the hell is going on.”

Dean nudges Sam’s shoulder as he walks by, dropping off a tumbler of whiskey before he settles into the chair across the table from his brother. “Straighten up,” he orders. “You stay hunched over that book much longer and your back is gonna start screaming again.”

It takes a minute for Sam to refocus on the world outside the file he’s reading and the notes he’s taking. “Thanks, De,” he says distractedly. He takes the whiskey, draining it in one long swallow and shuddering as the liquid warmth starts a slow burn in his stomach, then settling back to stretch out his back. “Just got caught up in reading about some of the artifacts the Men of Letters have tucked away on the lower levels.” He turns the file he’s reading toward Dean and taps a picture of an odd looking book. “Then I came across this file and it’s a little weird. You remember that alternate universe we ended up in a couple of years ago?”

“The one with no magic or monsters? Man that was _weird_.”

“The Men of Letters think that a man named Ethan Westmire came here from that universe and stole this book from _our_ version of Ethan Westmire.”

“Okay, I take it back. _That_ is weird.” He reads a few lines from the file out loud. “Ethan Westmire was an amateur Egyptologist in the early twentieth century, best known for succumbing to _The Mummy’s Curse_ after a brief stint in Egypt with Howard Carter. It’s rumored that the two had a falling out after Westmire was accused of stealing from the dig site. Afterwards, Westmire’s slow descent into madness upon his return to the United States was well documented. He began to speak of alternate dimensions, and claimed he had the ability to travel into the past with the use of ancient Egyptian artifacts, including a book that he reportedly carried with him everywhere. The murder of his friend and long time companion Henry Morgan was believed to be the event that broke Westmire’s mind--after Henry Morgan’s death Westmire refused to wear modern clothing or to speak English, leaving the authorities no choice but to confine him to a mental institution. The LK Men of Letters branch acquired his estate upon his death not long after his incarceration, but the described book was not discovered among his possessions despite being noted by many as a constant presence in his life.”

“The book is pretty unusual,” Sam says, reading the description. “It’s bound in leather of some sort--the Men of Letters who catalogued it assumed human skin--and the ink is reddish brown, which never bodes well.”

Dean shudders. “Human skin binding and blood ink--why are these crazy fuckers always so unsanitary?”

“And murderous,” Sam says dryly. “I doubt he used his own skin or blood. There’s some sort of crystal scarab set into the cover--it looks like it could have originally been some sort of amulet.”

“So what does it do?” Dean asks, ambling over to the liquor cabinet for another drink. He brings the bottle back with him and refills both their glasses. “Is it a grimoire?” He pauses, thinking. “And how could he have stolen a _book_ from an ancient Egyptian tomb? They used papyrus scrolls, not paper.”

Sam smiles at his brother, secretly pleased as always when Dean slips and lets his intelligence show through the facade of disinterest he’s worn for decades. “You’re right, they did. The book appears to be a translation of a much older work, so maybe he stole a scroll instead…” His voice trails off as he skims the page, lost in thought.

Dean grins at him, shakes his head fondly. “You’re such a nerd, Sammy. I’m turning in, you coming?”

Sam contemplates the stack of books and files in front of him and shakes his head. “Give me five more minutes,” he decides. “And leave the door open so I don’t wake you up.”

Dean rolls his eyes--he’s heard the “just five more minutes” speech from Sam more times than he can count over the years. But he downs the remaining whiskey in his glass and heaves himself up out of his chair as though he believes him anyway, reaching out to ruffle Sam’s hair affectionately as he passes by. The hallway to their shared room is dark and chilly without Sam next to him putting out heat like a furnace, but he shrugs it off. At least they’re sharing a room again--after weeks of neither of them being able to sleep well or really at all in Sam’s case, they’d made the choice to shift two beds to one of the larger rooms. Sam still has his study, as he likes to call it, and the library, and Dean has basically the rest of the bunker, not that he’s ever minded sharing his space with Sam. He’s just glad that most nights when he wakes up from whatever nightmare his subconscious has cooked up he can look over and see Sam safe and sound, and fall back asleep to the quiet sound of his brother’s steady breathing.

Which he’s missing as he tries to fall asleep. Minutes tick by--more than five but fewer than Dean expected--before Sam finally tiptoes into the room to collapse onto his own bed and restless sleep finally drags Dean down into dreams.

  
Taking another drink, Jared turns to the next page in the book. Jensen comes around the counter to look over his shoulder, the warmth of his body a welcome counterpoint to the chill that seems to have settled into his bones. They read together, but there’s only one short paragraph on this page.

“ _The man who would travel through time and space must be both brave and wise. An offering must be made to continue on; seek the guidance of Khepri’s earthly vessel and all will be made clear._ ”

“That’s it?” Jensen says, puzzled. The facing page is blank, not a single mark on it, and Jared shrugs. “Okay, well. I guess that’s what google is for.”

“We're going to have to get one of those "Delete My Browser History" emergency bracelets after tonight,” Jared quips as Jensen gets out his phone. It doesn’t take long to learn that Khepri is one of Egypt’s sun gods, and that the scarab beetle was believed to be his representative on Earth.

“So this isn’t just a pretty decoration, I’m guessing,” Jensen says, closing the book and tapping the crystal scarab set into the front. “Maybe it’s some sort of magnifying glass or something? See if it comes out of it’s fitting.”

Jared shrugs. “That would probably be the least crazy thing about all of this,” he says with a small laugh. He pries at the scarab, trying to get a grip on the edges, but it doesn’t come loose.

“Try pressing down and turning it, like a pill bottle,” Jensen suggests, and Jared nods, pressing down and twisting his palm slightly until they both hear a faint _click_. But the scarab doesn’t spring free. Instead Jared cries out sharply at the stabbing pain in his palm, pulling his hand back in shock.

“Fuck!” Jared exclaims, dropping the book to clutch at his bleeding hand.

“Holy shit, Jared, are you okay?” Jensen grabs Jared’s hand and tries to wipe away the welling blood, but Jared pulls his hand back to point at the beetle, which has pulled itself free from its place on the cover.

Blood red mist swirls through the crystal form, and as they watch it trundles a few inches across the counter to where drops of blood have dripped from Jared’s hands. Each drop disappears, absorbed into the scarab’s darkening body.

“Jesus Christ,” Jared whispers. “What the fuck is happening? Is that thing _alive_?”

“I think you just made an offering,” Jensen says shakily. He grabs a paper towel and wipes away the blood, revealing six small punctures forming a bloody oval in the palm of Jared’s hand. “These are going to need bandages,” Jensen says, worry coloring his voice. “If not stitches.” He wraps Jared’s fingers around the rapidly soaking paper towel and hurries toward the bathroom where they keep the first aid kit, but a low sound catches him at the doorway and he turns back.

Jared is glowing. His head is thrown back, the tendons in his neck and shoulders taut and strained, his face suffused with blood-red light. First aid kit forgotten, Jensen rushes back to his husband’s side. Through the light, Jensen can see that the crystal scarab has split into three smaller scarabs, all glowing crimson with their stolen blood. One is eating it’s way through the thin cloth of Jared’s t-shirt, directly about his heart. Another clings to his forehead, and Jensen’s skin crawls in horror as the third forces its way into Jared’s mouth.

“Jared!” he shouts, fingers scrabbling at the crystal scarab on his chest. There’s a hole in the thin cloth of Jared’s t-shirt now, and the insect has burrowed it’s way into Jared’s skin. Jensen can _see_ it’s tiny legs under Jared’s skin, holding it in place, and a thin rivulet of blood runs down Jared’s chest as Jensen pulls frantically at the hard crystalline body, trying to dislodge it.

“The offering has been accepted.” The voice is Jared’s, and not, but the huge hand and the strength with which it grips Jensen’s wrist are all his husband. Jensen struggles to free himself, but Jared has always been stronger than him, and the last thing Jensen wants to do is harm him. He releases the scarab embedded in Jared’s chest, grateful at least that it doesn’t dig it’s way in further, and tries not to look at the glowing beetle embedded in Jared’s forehead or think about the one in his mouth. Jared, or rather the thing inside Jared, doesn’t let him go, but it’s grip on Jensen’s wrist eases as it speaks again, a series of nonsense syllables that thunder through the quiet kitchen as the glow around Jared intensifies.

Then, as abruptly as this nightmare began, it ends.

“It is done,” not-Jared intones, and the light surrounding him disappears as Jared slumps forward. Jensen catches him, his relief indescribable as the three scarabs clatter to the counter. They are mostly clear again, faint swirls of red barely visible as they crawl together and reform into a single whole that sits innocently on the counter, waiting for the next unwitting victim to pick it up.

“Jared? Jared!” Jensen slaps his cheeks gently, desperate to see his eyes open and clear again. Jared moans softly, and finally-- _finally_ raises his head.

“What the hell just happened?” Jared says groggily, voice thick and raspy. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.” He looks down at his shirt, torn and bloodstained though his chest shows no signs of injury. “What….”

Jared’s voice trails off when he sees the tears of relief on Jensen’s face. “Babe. Tell me what’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Jensen shakes his head, takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to believe this…”

“Dean? _Dean!_ Wake up, I--”

  
The rough panic in Sam’s voice drags Dean out of sleep and into full consciousness in an instant. Sam is out of bed, kneeling on the floor with his arms outstretched toward Dean. He looks odd--it takes a moment for Dean to realize he can see the room behind Sam. _Through_ Sam. Dean’s by his side in an instant, muttering a quick prayer of thanks to anyone who might be listening that he can still grab hold of Sam’s arms. But not for much longer--Dean’s fingers disappear into Sam’s body, which seems to be disintegrating in front of him. Sam reaches for Dean and when they touch it’s like connecting a circuit--Dean’s vision blurs, the room spinning around him.

“Cass!” Sam gasps, barely audible above the roaring in Dean’s ears. “ _Cass,_ we need you!”

  
**********

“Cass! Cass, we need you!”

The words echo in Castiel’s mind--Sam’s voice, filled with panic and fear. He looks around the ramshackle building he’s currently searching through, half expecting to see Sam there calling his name. _No,_ he thinks. _That’s foolish. Sam is with his brother._ His failing grace is clouding his mind, making it hard to think. But Sam needs him. That much is clear to him, and he focuses all his will and power on following the sound of Sam’s voice back to the source.

Castiel arrives at the bunker moments later, and finds himself standing over the bodies of Sam and Dean Winchester. Both brothers are unconscious but breathing, lying in each other’s arms, and try as he might Castiel can find nothing for his magic to heal. But something is wrong. He thinks for a moment, then plunges his hands into their bodies, seeking their souls.

But instead of the familiar presence of the brothers, the souls Castiel finds are unknown to him. Both bodies awaken, screaming in agony, and the body of Sam scrambles away from him in terror. He speaks, voice shaking with pain and fear, but the words are not immediately recognizable. It takes a moment for Castiel to recognize the speech of ancient Egypt, not heard for thousands of years. But Castiel knows all of Earth’s languages and speaks to him soothingly.

“I know you are lost, friend, but I can--”

A heavy weight slams into Castiel’s back, driving him to his knees. The soul possessing Dean’s body, he realizes. The connection between these two souls is as visible to those who can see such things as the bond between Sam and Dean, now that Castiel is paying attention, and the attack is less surprising. Castiel stands, shaking the human off his back, and turns so that he can watch them both.

“I’m here to help you,” he tries again, holding out his hands, but his words don’t seem to reassure. The spirit inhabiting Sam’s body is speaking softly, too low for Castiel to make out much--something about a camel, he thinks. His hands move slightly in rhythmic patterns unlike anything Castiel has ever seen. _A spell,_ Castiel realizes suddenly, and frowns in annoyance as Dean’s body begins inching toward him, his aggressive intent clear.

Enough is enough.

Castiel screws up his face in concentration, his whole body bearing down as a long stream of power is expelled from his borrowed body, spraying out over the two men in front of him. But he’s too late--whatever spell Sam’s body and it’s uninvited guest have cast strikes Castiel at the same instant Castiel’s magic covers the two men before him. He sees them fall to the ground, then everything goes black.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jensen asks anxiously when he finishes the story. The scarab is lying on the counter, it’s three parts rejoined, with no trace of Jared’s blood remaining inside them. Jensen had wiped away the thin lines on his forehead and chest, unable to look at them without feeling light-headed. _What the hell have we been thinking?_ he asks himself angrily. _Playing around with things we don’t understand at all._

“I think so,” Jared says slowly. His voice is still raspy and hoarse from where the scarab had crawled into his _throat_. “I sort of remember what happened...there was a flash of light and I felt like something was pulling on me.” He shudders. “Not my body, my mind. My soul, maybe? But then whatever it was let go, like it couldn’t get a good grip. I heard someone shout, like from far away, and then you were here.” He smiles at Jensen gratefully. “Thank God.”

“You heard someone shout? Someone who wasn’t me?” That brings up a whole new realm of questions that Jensen doesn’t really want to think about.

Jared nods. “It might have been two people? I don’t know. It was probably a hallucination, because it did sort of sound like us--you and me--just...different.” He shrugs helplessly. “Maybe there are answers in the book, but I’m not sure I want to look for them tonight.”

“We might already have them,” Jensen says, dreading the truth. “Westmire says he got this book from an alternate dimension, right? What if the reason that thing--Khepir, or whoever is responsible for this mess--what if it couldn’t grab you because you’re not exactly right? What if it grabbed your double from over there instead?”

“Fuck.”

Dean’s head is throbbing when he opens his eyes, and judging by Sam’s groan he’s not feeling much better. The room they’re in seems hazy with smoke, and Dean instantly regrets shaking his head to clear it. He takes another look at Sam and shakes his head again, ignoring the pain, because fucking hell. They are definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Sam sits up, giving Dean a better look at what he’s wearing. It’s a skirt, for starters--white and long, with a white...blouse? Dean blinks rapidly, sure that whatever’s in the smoke must be messing with his head. There’s a glint of gold around Sam’s throat as well, spilling over onto his chest, and the whole thing looks like he raided Cleopatra’s closet while Dean was unconscious. He’s about to say just that when Sam beats him to the punch.

“Dean, why are you wearing a skirt?”

Startled, Dean looks at himself, realizing for the first time that his clothing is no less ridiculous than Sam’s. He’s also wearing a skirt, but unlike Sam’s skirt his is colored with black and gold bands.

“What the hell is going on here?” Dean demands, voice low as he tries cautiously to stand. His knees hold after a few seconds and he holds out a hand to his brother, pulling Sam carefully to his feet. Sam stumbles a bit, falling into Dean, which gives Dean the chance to reassure himself that Sam is really okay. He runs his hands over Sam quickly, efficiently--no blood, no excessive bruising, no odd lumps anywhere. Just lots and lots of muscle and smooth, undamaged skin that Dean does his best not to linger over. Sam endures his once over quietly, no complaints, then returns the favor in silent acknowledgement that the need for reassurance goes both ways. That had been a hard won battle, but Dean had been surprised to discover these last few years that the peace of mind it brought _both_ of them had been worth it.

Of course, it’s while Sam’s got his hands under Dean’s shirt pressing on his ribs that the sound of a throat clearing echoes politely through the room. Sam jumps back guiltily, even though these people, whoever they are, can’t possibly know that they’re brothers. They both turn to face the intruder, Dean reflexively reaching for the gun that should be at the back of his waistband and cursing silently when there’s nothing there.

Their visitor is far from threatening, though. Sam studies the man before them--short, lean, with straight black hair cut short. No muscle tone to speak of, and he’s dressed just as outlandishly as Sam and Dean are--short dun skirt, no shirt, a single ring on his right hand and a gold armband above his left elbow. He speaks again, random gibberish that sounds both inquisitive and respectful but leaves both brothers staring at him blankly. When neither of them respond, he bows meekly and begins to back out of the room. He speaks again, and it’s like a channel switch on the radio from static to Dean’s classic rock.

“--apologies to the master, my lords--”

“Wait!” The word sounds like English, but underneath it Sam can _hear_ that it’s something else entirely, something that the man in front of them understands. “You caught us off guard. Please, what was your message?”

Under any other circumstances Sam would be memorizing the look on Dean’s face for years of teasing, but more important things like surviving whatever mess this is take precedent for the moment. He waits expectantly for their visitor to repeat his message.

“Master Neferu wishes to see you both, as soon as is convenient,” the man--a servant, Sam guesses--repeats. “But if you are...indisposed...I will give your apologies to the master.” The word _indisposed_ is said so delicately and yet with such ribald undertones that Sam can feel himself blushing. _Even here people assume we’re gay,_ he thinks, resigned and a little amused. _Wherever here is._ A quick glance at his brother shows that Dean had picked up on the nuances as well, a slight flush creeping up over his cheeks.

“Please tell Master Neferu that we will be with him shortly,” Sam says quickly. “A few moments to freshen up would be appreciated.”

The servant struggles with his expression, trying and failing not to smirk. “Of course, my lord Merithoth. I will wait outside to escort you and milord Akhom to his chambers when you are finished.”

“Goddammit,” Dean hisses the moment the door is closed. “What the _fuck_ is going on here, Sam?”

Sam rubs his forehead, then looks at Dean hard. “I don’t know, but it’s _weird_. I can hear what we’re saying, but it’s not really what we’re saying, you know? And when I look at you, I can see _you_...but I also see someone else, too.” He hesitates, looking around the room in bemusement. “I think...I think maybe our souls are in ancient Egypt.”

Dean just stares, speechless. Sam would be proud if he weren’t also scared shitless and filled with wonder at the possibilities.

“You want to run that by me again, Sammy?” he says eventually. “Because it _sounded_ like you said--”

“I think our souls are in ancient Egypt,” Sam repeats, more firmly. He glances around the room, sees a piece of polished metal that probably functions as a mirror of sorts. “Come here,” he says, standing in front of the mirror. He positions Dean in front of him, his hands smoothing comfortably over Dean’s shoulders. “Look at yourself,” he says softly. “Look at us. _Really_ look.”

Sam can see it more easily now, his eyes and his mind adjusting. He’s not really seeing _Dean_ , he realizes, but something like an idealized version of his brother--beautiful, perfect, loved. _I’m seeing Dean’s soul_ , he thinks with wonder, but he can’t look directly into the mirror for too long. The double image--his brother’s familiar face and body superimposed on that of a much smaller and younger man along with the vision of his own soul and body--is headache inducing, especially in the dim smoky room.

“So where do you think our bodies are?” Dean asks, fascinated. He reaches out to touch the image of Sam’s soul but pulls back at the last moment. “Back in the bunker?” His voice drops. “And where are these poor saps?”

“There’s no way to know,” Sam says heavily. “But I think it’s likely that they’re in our bodies while we’re here.”

“Shit,” Dean says with feeling. “There’s no telling what kind of trouble they’ll get into there in the bunker.”

“We’ve got to get back,” Sam says grimly, and Dean feels a twinge of guilt over Sam losing control of his body to someone else yet again, even though it’s not his fault at all. “And soon.”

“Well, first let’s go see what’s going on with Smirky,” Dean says, but he doesn’t move away from the comfort of Sam’s touch, closing his eyes instead and letting relief wash through him, because at least he’s not here alone. With Sam here, he knows they can do anything.

**********

  
It’s dark. And warm. And the most singularly delicious smell Castiel has ever encountered is right in front of him, stirring feelings that Cass thinks he remembers as hunger. He opens his eyes and lunges forward, snapping up a mouthful of the fragrant hay in front of him.

“Easy, girl,” a soft voice murmurs in his ear. “No need for that, you’re to get plenty of hay tonight. Master’s orders.”

A niggling thought flits through Castiel’s brain, a memory he can’t quite catch. There’s something he’s supposed to be doing, he thinks, but then a soft brush begins to stroke through his fur and every other thought disappears in a warm haze of comforting pleasure.

**********

Smirky seems surprised when Sam and Dean exit the room after only a few minutes, but he covers it well.

“This way,” he says politely, and leads them down a broad hallway. The walls are sandstone at first, but after a few meters the hallway turns into an open air walkway, a welcome change from the room they’d found themselves in previously. Sam can see a much larger building in the distance, their obvious destination, but his attention is quickly diverted by the view around them--blinding sun, miles of sand, a thin ribbon of green that he surmises must be the Nile river itself. He reaches for Dean, wanting to share this first view of their temporary home with him, but his brother is dealing with a distraction of a different sort.

“I must speak with the healers!”

The voice belongs to a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties. She’s short, her head well below where Dean’s shoulder would be if he were in his own body, with dark hair and eyes, and wearing a type of white linen shift that Sam recognizes from ancient paintings and drawings made famous by museums all over the world.

“Lady Beketamun, your father--”

“Excuse me, is there a problem?” Dean steps forward, and Sam follows out of instinct.

“I must speak with Merithoth and Akhom,” she says, uncertain now that she has Dean’s attention. Her eyes flit between Dean and Sam, unsure who is who. “My sister needs your help. There is a sickness, and I fear that once you meet with my father he will monopolize your time.”

Dean glances over at Sam in concern. Sickness isn’t something they’re prepared to deal with at all, but Sam is already nodding.

“We’ll do what we can, of course,” Sam says smoothly. He turns to Smirky. “Can the lady walk with us to meet her father?”

“Of course,” Smirky says hurriedly. “Lady Beketamun, this is Merithoth, a healer and magician of some renown.” Sam bows slightly, smiling, while Smirky turns to Dean. “And this is Akhom, his brother, who guards his earthly form when he walks among the Gods.”

Sam looks at Dean, brow slightly furrowed. _What the hell?_ he thinks, and Dean shrugs, just as lost.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Dean says politely, and steps back behind Sam. He doesn’t leer or wink or do any of the things Sam is used to in the presence of a young and reasonably attractive woman, and it throws Sam off balance to realize that Dean is being cautious and letting Sam take the lead. It’s a good feeling, Dean’s trust, and he’s determined to do whatever it takes to get them back to where they belong.

**********

  
Eventually the hay is gone. Castiel lows mournfully, hoping for more, but the only answer he gets is a fond slap on his neck, and a gentle scolding.

“Don’t be so greedy, now,” the voice says. “Just because you’re eating for two doesn’t mean you can have it _all_.” A soft rope is slipped around his neck, tugging him away from the hay rack. Castiel leaves reluctantly, lowing again as he’s let into the light.

Outside is bright. And hot. Castiel doesn’t particularly like either of these things, not after the cooler dark of the barn, but he endures them because the man who brought him hay wants him to. After a moment he smells water and lifts his head eagerly--he’s not sure if he’s ever been thirsty before, but he’s pretty sure that’s what this feeling is. The man leads him to a tub and pats his shoulder while he drinks. Castiel snaps at him when he pulls on the rope again--he wants _more_. First the hay, now the water--this man won’t let him have anything he wants. Disgruntled, Castiel follows him to an open sand field, where a small herd of camels is milling about aimlessly. Some of them are lying down, appearing contented, and Castiel decides to give it a try. His stomach gurgles and rumbles alarmingly, and deep inside him something moves, kicking his side hard. Without thinking he swings his head around and snaps at his own protruding flesh.

“Here, now, none of that,” the man says, worried. “It’s just the little one getting more comfortable. Don’t worry, it won’t be long until you get to meet him.”

Castiel isn’t sure what to make of that, but a wave of exhaustion washes over him. He sinks to his knees, tucks his head against his side, and sleeps.

Sam smiles at the woman before him, taking her hand gently. “Please, Lady Beketamun. Tell us about this sickness. And call me Sam. It is a personal name, and I much prefer it among friends.”

“Alright….Sam,” she says, seeming somewhat overawed to have his undivided attention. “Many people in our city are becoming sick,” she says gravely. “It starts with a fever, then the victim begins to get sores on their skin, just small ones. But they itch terribly and spread quickly. A cough follows soon after, and after that…”

Sam glances at Dean, catching his eye. His brother looks grim, no doubt thinking of all the things this could be--anything from chickenpox to measles to smallpox, and very little either of them could to to help.

“I see,” he says thoughtfully. “My brother and I should visit your sister, and see what we can do. Tell me, have any of your animals become sick? Has anyone taken ill and recovered?”

“Some people have survived, thank Isis,” Beketamun confirms. She looks up at Sam admiringly. “Is that important?”

“It may be,” Sam says. He doesn’t want to commit to anything, but his mind is already racing ahead. If this _is_ measles or smallpox, they may have a chance of setting up a crude form of vaccination. Provided, of course, that they are here long enough to do so, which he fervently hopes will not be the case.

  


  
“If this thing grabbed Sam, then Dean must be going out of his mind right now,” Jensen says, eyeing the scarab and the book balefully. “But the book says there’s a way to bring him back, so--”

“I don’t want either of us touching that thing again,” Jared interrupts, his face pale and set. “Not tonight, at least. Maybe there’s a copy of it online or something--it can’t hurt to look, right?”

“That’s a good idea,” Jensen says, nodding. “But...we can’t leave that thing just sitting on the counter. It’s not safe.” He holds up a hand, forestalling Jared’s protests. “You go get comfortable on the couch. I’m going to bring you a clean t-shirt and get some gloves before I put that thing away. Deal?”

Jared nods, sensing that’s the best he’s going to get. “Deal,” he says, standing up. He grabs his laptop and carries it toward the living room, settling in for yet more research. “We could have been watching the game,” he grumbles loud enough for Jensen to hear, and it makes Jensen smile, just the way it’s supposed to.

An hour later, Jared’s nodding off over the laptop, his body still in shock and needing time to heal and recover. Jensen sits the laptop on their glass coffee table and covers him with a light blanket. When he’s sure Jared won’t wake up, he heads back into the kitchen and gets the tupperware container he’d put the book and scarab in off the top of the refrigerator.

“Bastard,” he mutters under his breath as he gingerly removes the book. “I ought to salt and burn you right now.” The scarab just calmly glints at him from it’s setting on the book’s cover, though Jensen doesn’t remember putting it back into place. “Great, just great.” He carries the book into the living room, stopping for a pad of paper and pencil from his desk, and settles onto the couch to do some research of his own. Jared’s still sleeping, proof in Jensen’s mind that neither his body nor his mind had handled the stress of what happened well at all, and Jensen carefully lifts Jared’s feet and lays them across his lap. He wants the comfort of physical contact, even if Jared’s not aware, reassurance that Jared is here with him and just sleeping, not running around in ancient Egypt.

Flexing his fingers inside his gloves, Jensen opens the book and starts to read.

  
A few moments later they arrive at the main house and Beketamun takes her leave, returning to the sickroom to care for her sister. Sam’s glad they had the chance to give her some hope and peace of mind, but her odd reference to her father monopolizing their time has him concerned. If the bodies he and Dean are inhabiting aren’t here for the sickness, then what does he want from them?

Once inside the main building, Sam is distracted from his musings by the magnificence surrounding them. The walls are a riot of color, scenes from everyday life and the lives of the gods drawn out and painted in vibrant, eye-catching colors. The gleam of gold is everywhere, offset with turquoise, carnelian, and jet. The effect is dazzling, and Smirky’s smirk is even broader when he sees their reactions.

“Master Neferu is right through here,” he says, indicating a set of ornate wooden doors. He knocks briskly, not waiting for a response before pushing open the doors and ushering them in.

“Lord Neferu, your guests Merithoth and Akhom have arrived,” Smirky says politely. Sam can see their host, reading at a long table set up as a desk. He doesn’t look up when he and Dean are announced, just waves irritably in their direction.

“Yes, yes, Idu, I heard you,” the man says impatiently, and Sam stares in shock, because their host, Lord Neferu, is speaking _English_. He calls the servant over and they speak quietly for a moment.

“Dude. He’s got that same double thing going on,” Dean whispers, nudging Sam’s arm, and when Sam looks again he sees that it’s true. There are two men behind the desk: the slight Egyptian man dressed very much like Sam’s body, and, much more faintly, a taller, weathered looking American wearing clothing that appears to date from at least a century earlier.

“I wonder if he’s Westmire,” Sam says softly, leaning toward Dean until their heads are nearly touching.

“I wonder if he’s dying,” Dean returns, just as softly. “Even knowing what to look for I can barely see him.”

“Or integrating,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Perhaps his soul is becoming one with his stolen body.”

“Gentlemen, I apolo--” Neferu cuts off in mid sentence, his face going pale as he looks up and sees Sam and Dean. It’s clear that he is seeing the same phenomenon that they are, and the sight is even more shocking for him. “Idu, please leave us at once. I have urgent business with these men.”

“Of course, Sir,” Idu says, baffled. He bows slightly and backs away, closing the doors behind him.

“Who are you?” Neferu demands, standing. “How did you get here? What--?”

“We’d like to know the same things,” Dean interrupts. “We’re Sam and Dean Winchester, from 2013, and boy do we have some questions for _you_.”

  
It takes Jensen nearly an hour to get through the book the first time: the handwriting is terrible, and the writing style is unlike anything he’s used to, a confusing mix of personal history, spells, and impassioned pleas to Heka, the Egyptian god of magic, for aid and power, and to make it even more confusing the author seems to have occasionally confused Heka with Hecate, the Greek goddess of magic. About halfway through, Westmire’s writing becomes more focused, providing lists of ingredients--herbs, potions, and other unusual items to be used in the spells and incantations to Heka. Each list is linked to a specific spell, and all of the spells seem to be linked to various phases of the moon, which makes the whole situation more complicated, but in the end he’s able to boil it down to a few important facts--namely, that all of the spells have already been cast on the scarab, which appears to be the key to the entire situation, and that while the travelling spell can be cast at any time, the return spell has to be cast during the new moon, which google tells him will be in three days.

The final page of text reverts to Westmire’s original, more cryptic style of writing.

_Absence makes the heart grow fonder, a fact well known to all who must be parted. But he who waits is not entirely without solace. Khepir’s hand, his emissary on earth, will show the truth, so that two longing hearts can share the traveler’s vision. A sacrifice must be made, not taken but offered willingly from the heart, and Khepir will show the way._

The final page is blank except for a scrolled frame that looks like it ought to contain a picture, but doesn’t. At the very top is an oval about the size of the crystal scarab, and Jensen is pretty sure that’s exactly what goes there. _A sacrifice from the heart,_ he thinks. _Not taken but willingly offered._ The only person here to make the sacrifice, theoretically, would be he who waits, meaning that to watch beetle TV Jensen is going to have to cut himself rather than let the scarab take it’s due. He knows that in the end he’ll do it, though. He can’t imagine living without Jared, and if the show is even close to Sam and Dean’s reality then he _knows_ Dean can’t live without Sam.

Jared wakes up as Jensen is thinking about what this all means and how far he’s willing to go to save someone he doesn’t even really know. Well, two someones, because he’s utterly sure that if this is all true, Dean won’t last without his brother around. He smiles at Jared as he blinks and stretches, convinced he’s going to do the right thing.

“Hey,” Jared says groggily, then sits up abruptly when he sees what Jensen has in his hands. “I thought we weren’t going to mess with that tonight.”

Jensen winces internally. “I wasn’t getting anywhere with google,” he says honestly. “Neither of us had found a copy of the book online, and I didn’t want to wait. I know if it were _you_ who had disappeared, I’d want all hands on deck no matter what.”

Jared appears at least partially mollified by Jensen’s explanation, but he doesn’t back down. “I really don’t want either of us touching that thing alone,” he says quietly. “Please, Jensen. We don’t know what could happen, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Scout’s honor,” Jensen says, half joking to lighten the mood. It works--Jared rolls his eyes, and Jensen knows he’s thinking of that dumb advertisement from years ago. “You feeling up to a rundown?” he asks.

Jared nods, swinging his feet back to the floor and scooting down the couch until he’s tucked against Jensen’s side, warm and breathing and alive and most definitely in Jensen’s space. Jensen doesn’t object, more than happy to give his husband the comfort he’s silently asking for, and to take his own comfort in Jared’s nearness.

“You want the good, the bad, or the weird?” he asks, tapping the pad of paper where he’d been taking notes, and Jared raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, if there’s something crazy enough to get it’s own designation of weird above and beyond what’s already happened, then I’ve gotta hear that first.”

“Weird it is, then. It turns out this book isn’t just a hodgepodge of spells and Westmire’s personal diary, it’s also beetle TV. For the low, low price of my willingly offered heart’s blood we can activate the little bastard and see what’s going on with our wayward brothers. Or at least one of them, anyway.”

“So if you bleed for this thing, we can tell if Sam was really sent back in time? We can somehow see him there?” Jared asks. He doesn’t look happy when Jensen nods. “Jen, I--”

“I’m going to do it, Jay,” Jensen says firmly. “I want you there with me every step of the way, but we started this. And we need to finish it. Besides, that’s the bad news, too: I have to be the one to activate the spell to bring Sam home, and you can probably guess what the active ingredient is.”

Jared swears under his breath, his expression dark. “Why does it have to be you?” he asks abruptly. “I’ve already done it once, I can do it again. It won’t be so bad now that I know what to expect.”

“One, that’s bullshit. There’s no way to be prepared for a fucking glass beetle crawling down your throat,” Jensen says flatly. “And two, it has to be me _because_ you’ve already done it once. It has to be someone who’s still here who calls you back. Or in this case, calls Sam back.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt,” Jared argues stubbornly. “You know, once we’re done with this, I want us to be _done_. No more weird books, no more creepy amulets, no more killer china dolls. Gary and the others can find someone else to deal with this shit. We’ve been lucky up until now, but I’m not willing to take any more chances.”

Jensen nods. “When we’re done here,” he agrees. “We’ll figure something out. For now, though, I want to go to bed. With my entire husband, not just his feet.”

“2013? Two thousand and thirteen? Nearly one hundred years?” Westmire sinks slowly back into his chair, rubs at his face with a trembling hand. “How did you get here?” he asks hoarsely. “You must tell me everything.”

“We don’t really know anything,” Sam says honestly. He looks around for somewhere to sit, and Westmire seems to revive somewhat, gesturing toward a pile of cushions near one of the room’s large windows.

“Please, sit. I have a feeling we’ll all want to be more comfortable for this,” Westmire says, sinking gracefully onto one of the cushions. Sam and Dean try to follow suit, but sitting in a skirt turns out to be more difficult than it looks. Amusement brings some of the color back into Westmire’s face as he watches. “When I first arrived here, I struggled with the clothing and furniture as well,” he offers. “Even though I had studied Egypt for years, I was entirely unprepared for the reality of living in her past.”

“Can you tell us how you came to be here?” Sam asks. “Maybe your story will help us make sense of ours.”

“There is one thing I must know before I begin,” Westmire says. “My companion, Henry Morgan--do you know what became of him? He was my assistant, and a--” Westmire hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “He was my dear friend, and I have worried about him often.”

Dean glances at Sam, both reluctant to be the bearer of such bad news. “We can’t be sure, but it seems that he was killed. Perhaps murdered. Very shortly after that, you--or what seemed to be you--went mad, and had to be committed to an institution for the criminally insane.”

Westmire blinks rapidly, but the tears in his eyes are still visible. “I thought something must have happened,” he murmurs. “I knew he wouldn’t have left me here if he could help it.” He clears his throat. “Still, I’d hoped he might have gone on to marry and enjoy his life. A pity.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Sam says gently. “What little we discovered indicated that the two of you were...very close.”

“Since childhood,” Westmire agrees. “But enough of that. I must know how you came to be here, and perhaps my story will help make that clear.

“I became enamored of Egypt and Egyptology at a very early age,” he begins. “It was very fashionable at the time, and had been for many years in Europe. I wasn’t permitted to study officially--my father was a businessman and it was expected that I would follow in his footsteps, but I spent every waking moment that I could pursuing my first love, and Henry Morgan was there beside me every step of the way.

“When I was twenty eight, I had the good fortune to be invited by Howard Carter to work on one of his secondary digs, the tomb of a minor official named Neferu. The tomb was suspected of being a fraud--there were many strange images on the walls, and artifacts that no one had seen before.”

Westmire pauses, laughs bitterly. “I didn’t care about the tomb’s provenance, I just wanted the experience and the prestige of working with Carter. I had dabbled, of course, in magic and science, as many gentlemen do, and I believed I had come across a method of traveling to different dimensions. I had even consulted with the great Tesla himself as to an energy source capable of powering such a venture! But I needed capital, and I’m ashamed to say that my greed was my undoing.”

“The book,” Dean guesses. “Or was it a scroll?”

“You’ve seen the scroll?” Westmire leans forward eagerly. “Perhaps with that, or with the book I wrote afterwards, I could return home…”

“We haven’t,” Sam says regretfully. “We weren’t sure there was a scroll, we only surmised, and we’ve only read about the book. I’m sorry.”

Westmire settles back with a sigh. “I suppose that would have been too much to hope for,” he says wearily. “Now we get to the true irony of this story. The tomb I stole the scroll from was my own, and the scroll written by my own hand. I have been the architect of my own destruction.”

“Fucking time travel,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Why can’t people just stay put?”

Sam winces internally, knowing at least some of the memories Dean is reliving, but to his surprise Westmire disagrees.

“Despite my own tragedy, I still think knowledge is worth having,” he says. “But I never thought I would be gone this long. I didn’t know…” He trails off, lost in thought and his own memories before shaking himself back to the present. “But if you’ve never even seen them, how did you arrive here?”

“We have no idea,” Sam says honestly. “I was reading about you, and the book, before we went to bed. I woke up feeling...off. Like something was wrong, very wrong. Dean--Akhom--my brother--woke up as well and grabbed me before we both fell unconscious. When we woke up, we were here. We’re hoping _you_ can tell us more about what happened.”

“All I know is my own story,” Westmire admits. “After I stole the scroll from my tomb, I found I couldn’t sell it. I was fascinated by the idea of actually visiting ancient Egypt, and once I translated the scroll I couldn’t resist testing the spell to see if it worked. Henry was by my side the whole time--the spell requires that there be two. One who travels, and one to call the traveler home.”

“So without Henry, you’ve been trapped here?” Sam asks. “There was no one else who could have called you back?”

“There was no one else who would know enough to do so,” Westmire says regretfully. “He was my only assistant and true confidant. I’ve spent years working on this spell, putting together what I remember from the book and what I can glean from the magicians and priests of this time but the truth is, I have only my own faulty memory to work with and I can’t be sure that what I have now is the complete version, without error. I will only be sure when I die, for at that point I will have completed the work as I found it. Or will find it, in the future. That’s why I called you here, in fact. Or rather the men whose bodies you occupy. They have no small reputation as healers and magicians, and I hoped…”

“Well, hopefully we can help you figure it out,” Dean says, frowning. “Because we’re both here, which makes our prospects of getting home pretty slim if we don’t.”

Westmire looks thoughtful. “Normally I would agree with you,” he says. “But if neither of you activated the spell--and believe me, you would know if you had, even by accident--then there must be someone else who can call you home. Who could have done this to you?”

“There’s no one,” Sam says in frustration. “According to the records we found, your book was stolen by someone from another dimension. Although the story was pretty sparse, it seemed possible that that was when Henry Morgan was killed--perhaps by the imposter from the other dimension. So there’s no one in this world who could have done this, because no one in this world had the book and scarab.”

“Soooo…” Dean exhales slowly, thinking. “If it wasn’t anyone from our dimension, maybe it was someone from the other one. Maybe those two actors who look like us. We always thought they ended up here after Castiel fucked us over, right? What if--”

“You’ve been to another dimension?” Westmire interrupts, incredulous. “You’ve met your own doppelgangers?”

“Not exactly. An angel opened a rift between the two dimensions and cast a spell that caused us to switch places with two guys who were...kind of us. Sam and I--” Dean gestures at his brother--”we’re kind of soulmates. Which means that they probably are too, and are probably linked to us somehow.”

“And it seemed like they were acting out parts of our lives,” Sam says eagerly, following Dean’s line of thought. “So if what they do affects us, and what we do affects them…”

“Maybe _they_ cast the spell but it grabbed us because the book is originally from our dimension!” Dean finishes triumphantly. “And if all that’s true, maybe there’s a way we can communicate with them!”

Westmire stares at them with a mix of awe and confusion. “I can’t tell if you are geniuses or madmen,” he admits. “But many men said the same thing about me, and yet here I am. Living in the glory days of ancient Egypt, trapped in the body of a man born thousands of years before my time.”

“That still leaves you trapped here, though,” Sam says, sobering. “There’s no one in this world to bring you back to your time.”

“If what you say is true, then I don’t want to go back,” Westmire says quietly. “I will stay here until I die, and mourn in my own time. But there is no reason for you to do the same. The spell to return you to your own time and place must be cast during the new moon, which by my calculations should be within the next few days. There are instructions on how to bring you home, and also how to look in on you, provided they are willing to do what is necessary.”

“Great, we just need to call for a pick up,” Dean says, halfheartedly joking. “We don’t know anything about these guys, but I hope they’ll do the right thing.”

“I hope for your sake that they do as well,” Westmire says gravely. “In the meantime,I will let it be known that you may have free run of the house and grounds, though I caution you to avoid the west wing of the house. We have set up an infirmary to deal with a dangerous sickness in the village, and several people have already died.”

“Your daughter Lady Beketamun told us that her sister is sick,” Sam says cautiously, not sure how Westmire will respond to interference from strangers. “Many illnesses can be treated or cured in our time, so maybe we can help. We would be happy to look into the situation, with your permission.”

“Of course,” Westmire agrees. “While they are not technically _my_ children, I have come to love Beketamun and her sister Aneksi as though they are. If you can help them, please do.”

Westmire stands easily, untangling himself from the pile of cushions with an ease that Sam immediately envies, and turns to face the wall behind him. Pushing aside a small metal flap, he speaks clearly into a hole in the wall. “Idu, please return to my study immediately.” Looking back at Sam and Dean, he smiles, clearly proud of his innovation. “It’s a system of pipes that runs through the walls and carries my words into various rooms throughout the house,” he says proudly. “I created it myself.”

Before either of them can answer, there’s a polite tap at the door and Idu enters, smirk at the ready.

“Idu, my guests are to have free run of the compound,” Westmire says crisply. “They have expressed an interest in helping my daughters, so perhaps you may start with the west wing.”

“Of course, sir,” Idu murmurs, bowing slightly as Westmire returns to his desk. Sam and Dean scramble to their feet, feeling dismissed, and Sam can see that Dean is just as puzzled by Westmire’s abrupt change in demeanor as he is.

**********

Castiel awakens slowly as the soft sand he’s lying on begins to lose its warmth. He yawns enormously, baring his teeth and stretching his lips in a wide grimace before turning his head to look for the water tank he remembers. He clambers to his feet, long legs ungainly and stiff underneath him, and ambles slowly toward the tank. It’s empty when he gets there, only a few damp patches on the bottom, and he lows mournfully in response. When nothing happens, he nudges the tank, then kicks it in a sudden fit of pique.

“Hey there, what are you doing?” For the first time, the voice sounds irritated. “You’ll break it, you stupid camel.” Castiel smells water and turns eagerly, zeroing in on the bucket the human is holding. He shoves his face into the cool water, slurping noisily, and the voice sighs. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know it? If the master didn’t want this foal so badly…”

The bucket disappears, much to Castiel’s annoyance, and his huge head swings up to glare at the human who took his water away. The human reaches out to pat him, and Castiel huffs and snaps his teeth, then spits directly on the human’s face. The human’s antics afterwards are amusing, yelling and cursing as he angrily wipes away the mess, and Castiel laughs at him with loud, honking brays before wandering off for a nice roll in the sand.

**********

  
Jared laughs a little, standing up and pulling Jensen with him. “I think that sounds pretty good,” he says. “I can’t believe I fell asleep like that.”

“Shock, I guess,” Jensen says. “Whatever that was...I doubt it did you any favors physically. And mentally something like that has to fuck with you, too.”

Jared wraps his arms around Jensen, pulling him close. “Well, it’s over now. For me, anyway. The rest remains to be seen.” He kisses Jensen, lightly at first, then more deeply. “I believe there was an earlier mention of you, me, and wicked ways?” he teases, leering comically. “Come on, lets get some rest and think about this in the morning.

Jensen follows him willingly down the hall, as determined as Jared to forget the past few hours for at least a little while.

  
Smirky-- _Idu,_ Dean corrects himself quickly, no need to antagonize someone who probably knows more about what’s going on here than anyone else here in the compound, leads them back through the main house. When they pass the main doors, he pauses.

“Would you like to retrieve your medicines and talismans before visiting the west wing?” he asks politely, and seems surprised when Dean glances at Sam and they both shake their heads.

“We’d rather just see what’s happening first,” Dean says. “Get a feel for what we might need. What about you? Are you afraid of this sickness?”

Idu fingers an amulet lying against his chest. “I am protected from these demons by Isis,” he says calmly. “What will be, will be.”

“Right,” Dean says, trying to keep a straight face. “So...you’ve worked here for awhile?”

Idu gives him an odd look. “My mother and father belonged to Lord Neferu’s father,” he replies. “I have belonged to Lord Neferu my entire life. He is a good master.”

Dean winces internally at his misstep but continues, determined to get the information they need. “But you’ve probably seen some pretty crazy shit these last few years, right?” he asks persistently. “So if my brother and I ask you to do something...out of the ordinary…”

“Lord Neferu has indicated that he trusts you,” Idu says stiffly. “He would not ask me to go against the gods or against nature.”

“No, no, of course not,” Dean says hurriedly. Jesus, this is a fucking minefield, and what the fuck is Sam doing other than trying not to laugh? “But if we wanted squares of linen to tie around our faces or water that has been boiled, you could do that for us?”

“Is that something you want?” Idu asks in confusion. “Do you think the masks will frighten the spirits attacking the children?”

“I--” Dean isn’t sure how this conversation went so far south so quickly.

“What my brother is trying to say is that we have traveled to many lands, and some of the things we have learned may seem strange or even shocking, But we have seen that they are effective, and believe they will help us heal the people of your village,” Sam says smoothly, stepping in at last to save Dean from himself. Dean shoots him a _look_ that Sam ignores completely.

Mollified, Idu nods. “We will do what we can to help,” he promises as they arrive at a set of plain wooden doors. Idu knocks before entering, and Dean realizes that whatever his expectations had been, he was not prepared for the sight before him. The room is dark, all the windows covered. Smoke writhes from several braziers, pungent and thick, with only the red glow of the coals to provide light. It’s impossible to tell how many people are in the room until his eyes adjust and he can see that there are at least a dozen bodies, probably more.

“Jesus,” he hears Sam whisper behind him, and wonders if his memories of Hell are rising up to choke him the way they are Dean.

“We need light,” Sam says, sounding much further away than Dean thinks he is. Dean can feel the heat from Sam’s body almost touching his, but his voice--Dean reaches blindly for Sam’s hand and finds him close and warm and reassuring.

“But the spirits,” Idu objects. “We must hide the patients--”

“Light and fresh air,” Sam insists. “As well as masks and boiled water that is still hot. In fact, if you can repurpose these braziers to keep several pots of water at boiling…” Sam is moving as he speaks, propping the doors open and letting in sunlight and air.

Their commotion hasn’t gone unnoticed. Lady Beketamun comes toward them with a confused expression. “Sam. Thank you for coming to check on my sister, but what are you doing? You’ll let in more demons and evil spirits!”

“We were just explaining to Idu that our methods and procedures might be different from what he’s used to,” Dean interjects quickly with a glance at Sam. “I know they may seem unusual, but we’ve seen them help others.”

Lady Beketamun doesn’t hesitate. “Very well. My father trusts you, I assume, or you wouldn’t be here.” She looks at them beseechingly, her hand on Sam’s arm. “Please save my sister if you can. She means the world to me, I cannot bear to lose her.”

Sam pats her hand kindly. “We’ll do our best to save everyone. Now, here’s what we’re going to need…” Sam leads her away from the sick room to discuss the supplies that he and Dean will want to have on hand, leaving Dean with Idu.

“Looks like it’s just me and you,” Dean says, trying not to sound as worried as he feels. “Let’s get this party started.”

  
Jensen wakes up before Jared, a rare occurrence when he doesn’t have to be on set first. He groans quietly as he stretches, sore and aching in all the right places as he rolls over to kiss his husband.

Jared doesn’t move. Doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t respond, just breathes, quiet and steady. There are circles under his eyes that weren’t there before, and when Jensen looks closer he can see the faintest outline of that fucking beetle on his forehead and over his heart. Jensen sits up, trying not to panic--there was nothing in the book about the traveler falling into some sort of coma, though now that he thinks about it Jensen wonders how he would have kept whoever was inhabiting Jared’s body from going absolutely apeshit after being dropkicked into the 21st century unawares. Maybe this was the plan all along, and that bastard Westmire just never bothered to mention it.

Ah, fuck it--he panics. “Jared,” he whispers, then shouts. “Jared!” He shakes his husband by the shoulders, slaps him the way they always do in movies. Jared stirs at that, blinks heavily up at him.

“Jen? ‘M tired.”

“Oh, thank God.” Jensen tries to get Jared up, but he’s dead weight, slipping back under. Jensen can’t rouse him again, but at least he’s not _dead_. He tries to calm his own breathing, one hand on Jared’s chest, the slow and steady rise reassuring as he works to get his thoughts in order. The book hadn’t mentioned anything like this, but Jared doesn’t seem _hurt_. Not yet. Two more days, Jensen thinks grimly, and goes to get the book. He hesitates then gets their sharpest knife from the kitchen as well, _freely given_ echoing in his mind.

Jared doesn’t move in the few minutes he’s gone, and Jensen takes a moment to consider. He leaves the book on the dresser and gets some warm clothes and a towel--they’d both been exhausted last night and Jensen knows Jared would clean up first thing if he were able. Jared doesn’t stir as Jensen wipes him down gently, fighting back tears as he redresses Jared in clean sweats. He doesn’t pull a t-shirt over his chest--too ungainly, and he wants to see that damn mark, wants to know the second anything changes.

When he’s done he takes the fastest shower of his life and hurries back to the bedroom, relieved to see no changes for the worse. The book is waiting for him, the gleam of gold and crystal somehow malevolent now rather than beautiful. He carries it gingerly to the bed and sits, back against the headboard as he tries to lift the scarab out of it’s setting. It comes easily this time, no spikes or sharp edges darting out to stab him, and he opens the book to the last page, sending up a silent prayer that he’ll get some kind of answers.

Placing the scarab in the oval shaped marking at the top of the page, Jensen picks up the knife with some trepidation. He’s not Dean Winchester, he’s not in the habit of slicing himself open, but he doesn’t have a choice here. He takes a deep breath and sets the knife against the inside of his wrist, lets it out and draws the blade down hard against his skin.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps, teeth gritted against the sudden flash of pain. There’s blood, a lot more than he expected, dripping onto the bed and the scarab and a little bit onto the book. “ _Fuck!_ ” He wraps his wrist in the comforter, annoyed with himself for not thinking to bring a towel, and watches in horrified fascination as his blood swirls and churns inside the scarab. The crystal beetle vibrates inside it’s little prison, and the blood Jensen had spilled onto the book pools and shifts until the scarab can absorb it as well. When the last drop has been consumed the scarab begins to glow with a familiar crimson light that spreads out from its body to cover the book.

When it fades, all Jensen can see is sand. Long moments pass, as though the scarab is looking for something, and then it stops, zeroed in on two figures. Jensen gasps again--he’d recognize Jared anywhere, but Jared is lying on the bed next to him. Looking closer, Jensen realizes he can see two forms--Jared, or maybe Sam--and a smaller figure that he thinks must be the body Sam is inhabiting at the moment. The angle shifts slightly and to his surprise he can see himself as well, with the same shadowy effect. “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about Dean destroying the world to find Sam,” he says aloud, then stops, not liking the way the words echo in the stillness. As he watches, Sam leaves with another figure--a young woman, it looks like--leaving Dean with a man who shrugs and leads him toward a small building. Before they enter, Dean stops suddenly and frowns, looking around as though he can feel Jensen watching him. Their eyes meet and Dean’s eyes narrow as though he can see through the centuries, and Jensen feels almost guilty for spying on him. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _And I’m working as fast as I can._

Jensen watches for a couple of hours before the red mist inside the scarab disappears completely and the picture fades away. It seems like the building must be some sort of hospital--Sam and Dean and their companions work tirelessly bringing kettles of water, linen bandages, braziers, and charcoal into the room. They immediately tie strips of linen over their mouths and noses once they get them, and Jensen wonders if there’s some sort of epidemic they’re trying to fight. Just before the picture fades away completely another man with a shadow appears to talk with them. _Westmire?_ Jensen wonders, frustrated when the picture vanishes, leaving him with more questions than answers.

His back screaming from hours hunched over the book, Jensen turns to Jared. His husband is still breathing deeply and steadily, but he’s stirred several times and Jensen hopes he might be able to rouse him at least enough to eat or drink.

“Jay,” he says softly. “Jay, can you hear me?”

Jared stirs again when Jensen shakes his shoulder, opening his eyes, but there’s no recognition in them at all. He sits up when Jensen urges him to, lets Jensen guide him into the bathroom. He eats the soup Jensen fixes for them, swallowing obediently, but he doesn’t respond when Jensen kisses him, doesn’t move when Jensen sits him on the couch while he changes the bloody sheets on their bed. He doesn’t react to Jensen’s whispered _I love you_ as Jensen tucks him back into bed, and the tears Jensen’s been holding back all day fall at that point, silent sobs shaking his whole body as he kneels beside the bed.

“So where do you want to start?” Idu asks dubiously, and Dean shrugs.

“We shouldn’t go in until we get our masks,” Dean says, thoughtfully. “My brother is really the brains of the operation, I’m just the brawn.”

“I doubt that,” Idu says quietly. “It’s obvious that you are a team. Why don’t I show you around so that you know where to find what you need, and perhaps find some food for you and you’re brother? It may be awhile before we have time to rest again, if you are truly going to drive out these evil spirits, and there are other watchers inside to help those who need it.”

As they’re about to walk away Dean feels an itch between his shoulder blades, the feeling of being watched. He looks around, but there’s no one he can see until he looks up--there’s nothing there but he could _swear_ that’s where the feeling is coming from. He makes a note of where he’s standing to tell Sam later, then hurries after Idu and the promise of lunch and supplies.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. There are eighteen people in the sick ward, and Sam and Dean spend the afternoon setting up kettles of water to boil and making sure everyone knows to wear their masks before they enter the room. Once the smoke has cleared out and they can see, It’s obvious that an effort is being made at least. But Sam still stresses to Beketamun and her helpers the importance of using clean, boiled water as much as possible, and the importance of boiling all their linens and clothes. He also puts an end to the blood letting and diuretics that have been taking an obvious toll on the patients, much to Idu and Beketmaun’s dismay.

“It’s measles,” Dean says, as they’re taking a break from hauling wood. It’s late afternoon and his arms and legs feel like they’re going to fall off. “I’m sure of it.” He hesitates. “You probably don’t remember, but you caught a pretty serious case when you were about six. Dad never got around to your vaccinations, I guess, and it was just one more lie on your transcripts. Scared the shit out of me.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t remember that at all,” he objects. “How could I have measles and not even remember?”

Dean shrugs. “You were pretty out of it most of the time. Your fever got pretty high a couple of times--I had to give you ice baths to keep it down. There’s about six months of your transcripts that are complete bullshit, but you were smart enough to make it up pretty quick when you finally got back into school. Anyway, it looked a lot like this. I think we should find some of the people who've recovered and see if we can start protecting people since there's not really much we can do to help them once they're infected."

"We have to make sure they stop bleeding them and giving them laxatives," Sam says thoughtfully. "That’s probably the most important thing we can do to help the patients. But if we make sure everyone wears their masks and uses boiled water for everything, maybe we can get a start on prevention too, even if no one is willing to offer up their own blood.”

"I'd rather be fighting their 'evil spirits'," Dean mutters. "At least then we'd actually be doing something."

"We've still got to figure out how to get home, too," Sam reminds him, and Dean growls in frustration.

"I hate just _waiting_ ," he says, pacing. He can feel eyes on him again, he swears, and he looks up at the cloudless sky, searching for who or whatever is up there, but no face appears in the sunset. “But hopefully we’ve only got two more days, so let’s get back to work.”

Sam shakes his head. “We’re calling it a day,” he says decisively. “We’ve done what we can for now--Idu will have better luck getting people to volunteer than we will, and we’re going to need to be able to work in the morning, too.” He nudges Dean with his shoulder. “Let’s go see what they’ve got to eat that isn’t too horrifying and get some rest.”

  
After another futile attempt to get a response from Jared, Jensen resigns himself to the fact that the only way to get his husband back is to wait until the new moon and cast the spell to return Sam and Dean back to their bodies. He reads and re-reads the book, searching for a clue to why Jared is being affected like this, but he only finds one cryptic passage, a caution against staying in the past too long.

_All magic has a cost, and the body feeds the spirit. The traveler must not stay away more than one cycle of the Moon, lest the body begin to fade and the spirit be lost forever._

Jensen ponders Westmire’s warning as he rouses Jared to eat again. _Why couldn’t he just say what he means?_ he thinks irritably as he cleans Jared gently before leading him to the couch. He turns the TV so Jared can watch the game--Jensen has no idea if his husband can see or hear what’s happening, but it can’t hurt.

“All the spells are already cast on the scarab,” Jensen says, thinking aloud, his mind a million miles away from the men running around on the screen in front of them. “So what magic is feeding off Jared’s body?” He thinks back over what he’d seen and realizes that Sam and Dean were able to communicate with the people around them, seemingly without issue. “Well, I guess that’s probably part of it. And they’re both drawing off you, even though they probably don’t know it.” He strokes Jared’s hair, presses a kiss to his temple. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he whispers, throat tight. “Don’t worry, I’m going to bring you all home.”

**********

The man is back. He doesn’t seem angry any more, and after he coaxes Castiel to his feet he leads him back toward the barn. Castiel can smell hay and water and other camels, and he balks suddenly, not wanting to go inside where he’ll be trapped. The urge to hide, to find someplace quiet and private is overwhelming, and he fights the rope around his neck. The man shouts for help, and others come running, more ropes and too much weight for Castiel to fight. They get him into his stall and tie his head so that he can’t run away. The man begins poking and prodding at his belly, which Castiel finds very upsetting. He kicks at the man to scare him away, but the man just makes soothing noises and shouts some more before patting Castiel gently. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re almost there. Just a few more hours and you’ll have a sweet little calf to take care of.”

Castiel does not want a calf. He wants to go outside and hide somewhere safe. He brays his displeasure at the man and gets laughed at in return. When he turns away to sulk, the man laughs again but finally leaves him alone to plot his escape.

**********

Dinner turns out to be an entirely palatable meal of roasted chicken, bread, and cheese, served with what Westmire claims is beer, though Dean has his doubts. But it gets the job done, and afterwards he wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep for a week, preferably followed by waking up in his own bed with Sam snoring quietly a few feet away. Westmire has other ideas, though, quizzing them both on modern life and inventions, and marveling at the ways the world has changed. He shows them his laboratory, where he does chemical and some medical experiments, and Sam brings up the subject of immunization for the villagers who haven’t yet become ill, explaining what they’ll need from the recovered villagers and from Westmire himself. Westmire listens closely, taking notes on Sam’s suggestions while Idu listens in the background as he goes about his chores, and then waits for further instructions. He’s clearly just as fascinated as Westmire, and Dean finds himself wondering what new inventions might find their way into the daily lives of the household after he and Sam are gone.

They finally call it a night after the second time the lamps begin to sputter, Westmire stopping Idu before he can fill them again. “I think it’s time for all of us to get some sleep,” Westmire says, stifling his own yawn. “Idu, would you please escort our guests back to their quarters? And in the morning we’ll start on your process of _immunization_.” He says the word grandly, excited for a new experiment, and Dean hopes like hell this is going to work.

Idu bows, and leads Sam and Dean out into the night. It’s much cooler than Dean expected after the heat of the day and he shivers, a bit unsteady on his feet after a few rounds of the unexpectedly strong beer. Sam laughs at him indulgently and slings an arm around his shoulders, but not before Dean notices a bit of a wobble in his steps as well. They lean on each other, Dean enjoying the warmth Sam gives off even in this body as they cross the short causeway to the guesthouse.

“Be sure to keep the doors closed and the windows screened,” Idu cautions before he leaves them. “Many spirits and creatures wander the night, and it is not safe to go out alone.” He pauses, one hand on the door. “And please forgive my boldness, but you will find that Egypt is not like the other lands you have visited in many ways. Men do not have to pretend to be brothers here; we have no taboos against love wherever it is found.” With that, he steps into the night, leaving Dean feeling considerably more sober and slightly annoyed.

“Why do people always assume we’re gay?” he grouses as he pokes his sleeping mat into shape. “I mean, not that I care, I guess, but why doesn’t anyone believe that we’re brothers?”

“Beats me,” Sam says, shrugging. He’s got the packs the two men whose bodies they’re using must have brought with them in his hand, digging through them until he finds what he’s looking for--two wide swathes of cloth cut to be sort of cloak-like. “Drag your mat over here next to mine, we can put one of these down over them and use the other for a blanket.”

“‘Kay,” Dean says, yawning as he follows Sam’s suggestion. The mats aren’t what he’s used to but they’re better than sleeping on the ground, and between Sam’s back against his own and the warmth of the cloak he’s asleep before he knows it.

A quiet rap on the door pulls Sam out of sleep. It’s still dark outside, and Dean is curled up against his chest in a way that would make him pretend to be _very_ unhappy were he to wake up that way. Sam slips out from under the cloak reluctantly and opens the door to see Idu with a tray--dates, bread, cheese, and some sort of milk that’s still warm. Idu’s gaze flits to the bed Sam has obviously just risen from and takes in Dean’s still sleeping form without comment. “Good morning, Merithoth,” he says politely. “Master Neferu thought you might like to sleep longer--he says that where you are from it is not customary to wake before the sun. I brought you breakfast so that you and Akhom may join us when you are ready.”

Sam takes the tray, thanking Idu for his courtesy. There’s a linen napkin to the side big enough to cover everything and keep away the bugs, so Sam puts it down next to their bags and curls himself around Dean again for a few more hours of peace and quiet, feeling more comfortable and relaxed than he has in years.

  
Jensen watches Sam and Dean sleep, feeling like some sort of pervert. They’re not doing anything sexual--they’re brothers, after all--but the casual intimacy of their interactions makes him feel like he’s intruding nonetheless. He watches Sam get up and speak to the Egyptian guy who seems to be some sort of servant, watches him wrap himself around Dean again and go back to sleep, unable to tear his eyes away from this version of Jared that’s still talking and moving. _One more day_ , he tells himself, and resolutely doesn’t think about what he’s going to tell Jared’s parents if this doesn’t work.

While Sam and Dean are sleeping, Jensen gets Jared out of bed and goes through what has become their routine. Bathroom, grooming, food, TV. Jensen talks to Jared the whole time--it had unnerved him to hear his own voice alone in the silence at first, but he minds less now, remembering that sometimes coma patients can still hear the voices of those around them. He brings the book over to the couch so he and Jared can watch together for awhile, grateful as he does so that he doesn’t have to cut himself again. Twice was enough of that--he’d called in a few favors after the second time, and a friend of a friend who was a nurse had made a housecall. She’d been skeptical at first, not buying his vague _actor stuff_ excuse, but seemed to accept that there was nothing sinister about his request to have a pint of his own blood outside his body rather than inside. Now all he has to do is squeeze out enough to satisfy the beetle and the picture immediately clears and shows him the brothers. This time they’re in some sort of bathhouse, and he can’t help but smile as Dean reaches out and tugs on Sam’s hair. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he recognizes that teasing look--he’s felt and seen it often enough on his own face, and he imagines that Dean is reminding Sam that many ancient Egyptians shaved their heads to avoid lice and other pests. Sam swats his hand away good naturedly even though if Jensen looks closely he can see that the body Sam inhabits has close-cut hair rather than Sam’s usual shoulder length. _Old habits,_ he thinks, smiling fondly. The picture goes hazy again not long after that, and he combs his fingers through Jared’s hair with a sigh. “Not much longer, Jay,” he promises.

  
“I could get used to this,” Dean says, finishing off the bread and cheese that Idu had brought them. He eyes the milk warily and decides to pass. “How come you never bring me breakfast in bed, Sammy?”

“Because I’m not your servant?” Sam says, and it turns out even Sam’s soul can put on a pretty epic bitchface when the occasion calls for it. “Come on, I want to take a look around while Idu and Westmire are out getting volunteers. We’re never going to get a chance like this again, you know?” He sounds wistful, and Dean just shakes his head.

“You’re such a geek, Sammy. Where do you want to go first?”

“Well, most people important enough to have tombs large enough to excavate usually started them well before their deaths. I’d like to check out Westmire’s tomb and see what the Men of Letters’ file meant by the unusual designs. And maybe check out their lettering and lighting techniques, too,” Sam says eagerly. “Did you know that there’s still some debate about how the deeper tombs were illuminated? They were underground, so there was no natural light, and they couldn’t use torches because of the smoke. There’s some speculation about mirrors…”

Dean tunes Sam out a little as he chatters on about mirrors and broadcast power and some other things that are completely outside Dean’s sphere of interest. Chariots, on the other hand--now that’s something Dean wouldn’t mind checking out. He smiles, picturing the two of them racing across the sand, Dean at the reins and Sam throwing spears at...hmm...ghouls, maybe? Something creepy and gross, anyway. Or maybe it should be the other way around. Sure, Dean likes to drive, but why should Sam get to have all the fun with spears?

Yeah, they’re definitely trying that out if they’re here long enough.

  
Jensen watches in horrified amusement as Dean warily approaches the waiting chariot and the two horses harnessed to it. They’d spent the morning exploring what appeared to be a tomb under construction, Dean tagging along pretending boredom while Sam asked questions and poked things and generally ran around like a kid in a candy shop. Watching Dean’s indulgent smile--only when Sam wasn’t looking, of course--made his genuine affection for Sam abundantly clear, and left Jensen wishing the writers would let him show that side of Dean more often rather than the constant fighting between the brothers. He decides it’s time to have another talk with Jeremy when this is over. He wants better for the brothers, wants Dean to look at Sam like this occasionally, and it’s long past time the two of them were on the same page again.

Watching the brothers, It’s clear Dean has no idea what to make of the chariot situation, and Sam isn’t much better. Apparently neither of them had really given much thought to the whole _horses_ part of driving a chariot, and after that episode back in season six Jensen can’t really blame Sam for being wary. Still, he has to give them credit. Dean climbs into the basket of the chariot and picks up the reins despite his misgivings, and Sam climbs in right behind him. There’s an Egyptian man standing to the side yelling encouragement, or maybe instructions--no, looking at his face it’s definitely nothing complimentary. Dean adjusts his grip on the reins and the yelling subsides a little, until the horses begin to walk. Sam drops his spear and grabs the side of the chariot, his face turning a little green at even that gentle movement.

“Damn, Jay, I wish you could see this,” Jensen says, wiping away tears of laughter. The shrieking from their instructor has intensified again, this time focused on Sam, and oops. That’s a mistake. Jensen recognizes that expression and watches through his fingers as Dean jumps out of the chariot and stalks over to the furious instructor, who is clearly unimpressed by his shouts. “Sam can barely stand up when the chariot moves, and Dean is defending his honor, looks like.” He glances over at his phone and thinks about trying again, but thus far trying to record Beetle TV has resulted in lots of boring footage of a blank page with some static and interference bands shifting through occasionally. Not exactly thrilling stuff. Jensen settles for describing everything he can see in detail, hoping that Jared can hear him and they can laugh about it later.

When Jensen goes to make lunch the brothers are still at it. Dean has made some progress--he’s figured out how to hold the reins so that they aren’t crossed, at least, which is less confusing for the horses. Sam can stand upright without turning green, and he’s switched out his spear for a slightly less overbalancing short bow--ironic considering Sam’s history with archery. Jensen cheers when Dean urges the horses into a trot and Sam still manages to loose an arrow without falling over, even if he’s nowhere near hitting the target, and his heart soars when he turns to Jared and sees a faint smile. He throws his arms around him and hugs him tight, grateful for a sign that Jared is still in there somewhere. He checks his watch for the thousandth time, impatiently counting down the hours google tells him he still has to wait before he can finally try to bring Jared home.

**********

Castiel can’t get comfortable. He’s still in his stall, his head still tied after he’d refused food and water. He wants to lie down, but when he does restlessness drives him to his feet again. But when he stands, everything hurts, pain ripping through his abdomen in sharp and agonizing waves. He can feel something moving inside him, something alive that wants _out_. That wants to be _free_. The feeling is vaguely familiar, and he doesn’t like it, at all. _This is **my** body,_ he thinks mutinously, kicking at the man, the walls, and anything else he can reach. _You can’t have it!_

As if in answer to his thoughts, another wave of pain roars through him, the most intense yet, and he screams in shock.

“Easy, girl,” the man says soothingly. Castiel hadn’t even heard him approach, and his words aren’t helping. Castiel tries to kick him out of sheer frustration, but his legs aren’t working properly and he drops his head, panting through another wave of pain. “You’d think you’d never done this before the way you’re carrying on. Lucky for you the old man loves you. Speaking of which…”

The man turns to his assistant and sends him running out into the night with a few words before turning back to Castiel. He unties Castiel’s halter to give him more freedom, and Castiel lunges at him, teeth snapping. This is clearly the man’s fault--Castiel had never hurt like this before he showed up. The man dodges with experienced ease, slapping Castiel’s nose with a sharp warning. “It won’t be long now,” he mutters to himself. “Then I can leave this spoiled drama queen behind and return to my own master."

Dean groans, trying to find a way to stretch out that doesn’t _hurt_. Climbing around in ancient tombs, driving a chariot, throwing spears--Dean didn’t even know he _had_ those muscles, but he sure does now. Sam is sleeping already, clearly less bothered than Dean despite the same adventures, and Dean moves a little closer to his warmth, soaking it up. Sam mumbles in his sleep and throws an arm across his chest, pulling him close, and Dean just goes with it, telling himself he’s too tired to fight off Sam’s octopus tendencies tonight as his eyes droop closed and he drifts off into dreamless sleep.

But not for long. This time there’s no polite tapping on the door. Sam and Dean are both jarred awake by the sound of fists on wood before the cool night air comes rushing in as the door is thrown open.

“Sam! Dean!” Westmire’s excitement is palpable. “Come with me, quickly. I want you to see this!”

Sam and Dean follow their host into the night, shivering a bit under the cloaks Dean had thought to grab as they left. Westmire seems immune to the cold, gesturing excitedly as he tells them that his favorite camel is about to give birth.

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean asks, his teeth chattering. “Did you say your favorite _camel_?”

“She’s a bit temperamental, but I’m very fond of her,” Westmire says. “Her pedigree is outstanding, and her foals are highly sought after. Sadly, this will likely be her last as she’s reaching the end of her breeding years, but I expect it will also be her best, and the profit I will make from this calf will secure a handsome dowry for both of my daughters.”

Sam looks over at Dean and shrugs. Westmire is their host...they can indulge him in this excitement. There’s quite a bit of yelling as they approach the stables, with several men running around lighting torches and lamps and bringing buckets of water in and out of the open doors. The pungent smells of unwashed animals and dung greet them in an almost staggering wave, but no one else seems to notice, leaving the brothers to power through and try not to gag.

There’s a cluster of men around one of the stalls, and as Sam and Dean follow Westmire closer, an agonized shriek rings through the air.

“Almost time,” Westmire says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to name the foal Winchester in your honor. I have enjoyed having you here very much, and I appreciate the news that you brought me more than I can say.”

“Um...thanks.” Neither Sam nor Dean really knows what to say but they accept the gesture for its intended meaning. “Is that thing alright?”

  
Jensen’s alarm goes off as Sam and Dean enter what looks like a barn, reminding him that according to NASA it’s officially the new moon and time to set his plan, such as it is, into motion. He removes the scarab from its place on the last page of the book and slots it into its setting on the cover, trying to prepare himself for the shock of pain that’s coming.

“Alright, Jay,” he says quietly, taking Jared’s hand. “Here goes nothing.”

He places his other hand on the crystal scarab and presses down, twisting the way Jared had done when this whole nightmare started. Pain shoots up his arm as whatever force inhabits the crystal takes it’s offering, and then the world goes black.

**********

  
Dean has never seen such chaos. Men shouting, running around with torches and buckets, animals screaming in pain and fear. Surely this can’t be normal? A look at Westmire’s face tells him it’s not, but before Dean can ask Sam grabs his arm.

“Dean? Dean, it’s happening again! I can feel--”

Sam sounds less panicked than before, but Dean’s heart kicks into overdrive anyway as he grabs Sam’s shoulders. His fingers sink into Sam’s flesh, like before, and as everything starts to fade away he swears he sees a flash of blue light behind and through Sam’s body. The roar in his ears--words of some kind, harsh and thundering--drowns out the panicked screams of Westmire’s men and animals as the world spins away into darkness.

**********

  
Enough is enough. Castiel doesn’t understand what’s happening, but he’s _done_. Whatever this _thing_ is inside him, it can have this body--Castiel doesn’t want it anymore. Another wave of pain rips through him and he can feel hot liquid gushing out of his body and down his legs. There are men, more than just the man, excitedly talking and yelling, and their voices crescendo, turning into screams of fear and panic as Castiel forces himself up and out of this body in a blaze of grace and power. He can smell smoke and fire, and as he stretches to his full form the building creaks and gives way, unable to contain him. He tosses the crumbling stone and wood away from the humans and animals who are running into the night with shrieks of terror, but stops when he sees two who have not run.

The brothers. Castiel remembers, now that he’s not trapped inside an animal brain. These two had cursed him here, when he was just trying to help Sam and Dean. And even as he watches, trying to clear the haze from his mind, one of them shouts and gestures toward him wildly. The wave of magic strikes him hard, drops of blood sizzling against his grace, and once again he feels himself flung through time and space.

**********

  
“Jensen? Jen, come on. Wake up!”

Jared’s voice in his ears, Jared’s hands on his shoulders and touching his cheek. Sting of blood running into his eyes, searing pain in his chest, and none of it matters because _Jared_. Jensen surges up off the couch and into Jared’s arms, wrapping him up tight.

“I love you,” he hears Jared say, muffled against his shoulder and rough from days of not speaking, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

**********

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Dean groans. His head is throbbing again, his shoulder twisted and aching from three days of Sam laying on top of him. “Can we please not do that again? Ever?”

“I second that motion,” Sam says wearily. “That book needs to be salted and burned in every dimension. Maybe Cass can help us pay them a visit and make sure that happens.”

“I think that would be wise.”

Sam and Dean both startle at the voice behind them, Dean once again reaching for the gun he doesn't have as they notice for the first time that Castiel’s vessel is lying on the floor behind them. “I do not wish to be a camel again, especially not a pregnant camel.” "A pregnant camel?" Sam kind of wants to know, then quickly decides that no, he really doesn't.

“So that _was_ you,” Dean says. “Thanks for the help, pal.” The sarcasm in his voice doesn’t appear to register as Castiel accepts Dean’s words at face value.

“You are welcome. However, I cannot stay to help you find the book. Sam’s call for help came at an inconvenient time, and I must return immediately.”

“Uh...sure thing, Cass,” Sam says, wincing as he stands. “Sorry about that.”

“It was my choice to come to your rescue,” Castiel says politely. “I regret that I could not rearrange your bodies to be more comfortable, but the spirits inhabiting your bodies were not welcoming of my advances. One of them forced me out of my preferred vessel and into the body of a pregnant camel, and I was not able to escape for some time. But now I must return to my previous task."

And just like that, he’s gone.

“Did that just happen?” Dean asks, standing up and reaching for Sam. “Did we really just spend three days chilling in ancient Egypt, or was this some kind of crazy shared hallucination?” He checks Sam over, makes him rotate his bad shoulder to make sure it’s working properly.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam says finally, pushing Dean’s hands away. “And yeah, I’m pretty sure that was real. Crazy, but real.”

Dean shakes his head. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink, a shower, and food. Definitely in that order. You coming?”

“Right behind you,” Sam says, smiling down at him, and Dean is so happy to see Sam’s actual smile on his actual face with his actual dimples that he can’t resist yanking him into a full body hug. Sam melts into it, and Dean smiles into his flannel clad shoulder, sighing with relief that once again everything is right with their world.


End file.
